The Mayor's Daughter
by FuneralCricket
Summary: Hunger Games first book through Madge's POV. I thought Madge was an underappreciated character. Rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Maysilee_.

That's the word that has shaped my life. I never knew her—she died nine years before I was even born—but she has had more impact on me than even the Capitol.

It is thanks to her that I cannot enjoy my position as the daughter of District 12's mayor, by no means an easy one but a sanctuary among the suffering of my district.

It is thanks to her that I never knew my mother. Mother spends half her life in bed, fighting headaches and memories of her twin sister. And Father has his mayor duties, so I grew up alone.

It is thanks to her that I have this mockingjay pin, this brutal reminder, the only whole piece from her body.

And it is thanks to her that today, in the same circumstances as she was on the day she received her death sentence—sixteen years old, reaping day, better off than most in Twelve—I stand beneath her photo on the mantle. She's fifteen, staring off into the distance. Maysilee looks just like me, with her full face, blue eyes, and brown-blonde hair. I've stared at this photo since I was three years old. Everything about it is familiar to me, or so I think.

I take the photo down from the mantle and run my fingers over the ornately carved gilded frame. Then, seized by an impulse, I open the back and take out the photo.

It drops onto the floor, and I gasp, thinking it's going to fall into shreds, seeing as it's 25 years old. It lands at my feet upside down, and on the back is something I never noticed before: an old note.

It looks like my mother's handwriting, but it isn't. It's a message from my aunt, in faded black ink:

_Maybelle:_

_Am writing this from the train. They wouldn't let me take two tokens along, so I'm keeping the pin and sending back my photo. _

_Don't lose hope. Keep going after I'm gone. I'll try really hard to win, I really do. Thanks for the pin. And thanks for being a great twin sister all these years._

_With love,  
Maysilee_

I sink down to my knees by the photo, unable to stop re-reading the message. This must have been the last thing she ever said to her sister. My mother. Clearly my mother couldn't keep hope and keep going on. And obviously my aunt didn't win, although it was a District Twelve victory. Haymitch Abernathy, our only living victor. I have always wondered, did he kill my aunt?

Mrs. Cartwright, the woman who runs the shoe shop, told me once that my aunt's body was covered in skewer marks when it returned. She wouldn't say anything else about it. Her daughter Delly is one of the nicest people I know, but even she couldn't help me when I began crying, wondering if Haymitch had used a trident to kill Maysilee.

I know I shouldn't hold it against him. There's the possibility he didn't. And even if he did, it was the Hunger Games. I've seen people win by uglier means than murdering their own district partner.

And anyway, I don't want to dwell on it. I carefully place the photo back in the frame and set it back on the mantle.

It's almost dawn, but nobody is awake. Most people aren't in the district yet, anyway. It's reaping day, and the only thing worse than that is a long one. But this morning, I can't help waking up early to stare at Maysilee's photo.

I head to the kitchen to have breakfast. Few things are better in District 12 than waking up early. Even on reaping day. I fix myself a breakfast of toast and fried eggs. Not much for a last meal at home, but it's simple. Tastes like District 12.

After breakfast, I tiptoe back to my room and open my curtains. I stare out my big window for the next few hours, watching the sun rise. I decide to skip lunch, deciding I'll eat to celebrate after the reaping. Not that I'm not going to be chosen… it's just that the odds are most likely in my favor today. I have five slips in, not needing to take out tesserae.

By now it's a quarter past one. I get up, stiff from sitting on my bed for so long. By this point, most households across the town and the Seam are full with parents calling for their children to get dressed for the reaping. But mine is still silent. Mother has her headaches confining her to bed and Father is probably awake, but busy with running District 12. I brush my hair and fix it up with a pink ribbon, and then dress in a fancy white gown. Then I see the mockingjay pin, sitting up on top of my dresser. I fix it onto my dress. Why not? At least I'll have a piece of my aunt with me.

A knock at the door startles me. I fly downstairs and open the back door, worrying it's Peacekeepers. But it isn't. It's just my friend Katniss Everdeen, along with a boy two years older. Gale. They have strawberries with them, and I understand. My father is mostly a distant man, though not cruel, but strawberries are his weakness.

Gale looks at me in my reaping clothes. "Pretty dress," he says shortly.

Is he being sarcastic? I just smile. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

"You won't be going to the Capitol. What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

I glare at him. It isn't my fault that 74 years ago, the Capitol set up the Hunger Games, along with the reaping system, designed to spare the rich and target the poor, with the two-faced gift of tesserae. That's what Mother called it once, when she was out of bed. The two-faced gift of tesserae.

Katniss comes to my defense. "That's not her fault."

Gale shrugs. "No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is."

I pass the money for the strawberries. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You too," she nods, and I close the door.

I take the strawberries and set them outside my father's study. "Happy Reaping Day," I whisper to him. He turns and smiles, then waves me away. "Go to the square. I have to help your mother," he whispers back.

I take one final look at myself in the mirror, secure my pin, and then head to the square. Many people look nervous or downright terrified. I let it all wash past me, just as my mother shuts out the world. I'm not one to panic or cry. I know my mother cries a lot, but she does it in her room and I never hear her.

The entire ceremony brushes past me. I don't listen to Father reciting the tedious story of how Panem came to be or Haymitch Abernathy embracing Effie Trinket or anything else. I pay attention, though, when Effie hoots, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the girls' names, pulling out one. Even with how calm I always am, my heart is pounding. It continues to pound as she crosses back to the podium and unfolds the slip. I'm hoping so much that it's not me or anyone else I love.

Effie calls out in her clear, resplendent voice, "Primrose Everdeen!"


	2. Chapter 2

_Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen._ No, it can't be Katniss! Then I realize. _Primrose. _Not Katniss.

The brief respite from my panic is cut short by the realization of who it is: Katniss's little sister! The sweet little twelve-year-old, who looks so much like a merchant girl that she could be my sister. I see her walking up to the stage, and I want nothing more than to go up to her and comfort her.

"Prim! Prim!" I hear Katniss crying through the crowd. What she must be feeling right now—she loves her sister more than anything else in the world.

Primrose is about to step onto the stage, just as my aunt did 24 years ago. For once I'm glad my mother is a constant wrecked mess. At least she doesn't have to relive the experience of seeing someone you love get handed a death sentence.

No such luck for me. In less than a minute, I get to experience that _twice_. Katniss has run through the crowd to the stage and pushed Prim aside, shouting, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

I'm vaguely aware of Effie saying something onstage. Something about proper protocol for volunteering, but Father says, "What does it matter? What does it matter? Let her come forward."

So it's official. Katniss Everdeen, my best friend, is the girl tribute of Twelve. Prim doesn't agree. She's wrapping her arms around Katniss and screaming, "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

Katniss pries off her arms. "Prim, let go. Let go!"

I don't want Katniss to go. But what is the alternative? Making her stay and watch her sister die onscreen?

Gale has to drag Prim off the stage. Effie asks for applause, but none of us do. Instead we say goodbye the Twelve way, to Katniss. It's the best goodbye we can give her.

Haymitch staggers across the stage and throws an arm around her. Katniss recoils from the drunken victor. "Look at her. Look at this one! I like her! Lots of… Spunk! More than you!" he shouts. "More than you!" he shouts again, pointing to a camera.

And then he falls off the stage, knocking himself out. I shake my head. Even our victors here in District Twelve are pathetic. No wonder we're the laughingstock of the nation. Effie chooses the boy tribute, some Peeta Mellark. He's the baker's son, and I vaguely know him at school. A few words exchanged in passing. I think once he helped me with a math problem. But that's enough to make me want to cry. To run into my dark house, close all the curtains, and let the darkness soothe me.

But as Father begins reading the Treaty of Treason, I don't want to let Katniss go to the Capitol without saying good-bye. I finger my pin, and I know in a flash what I must do.

After the treaty has been read and the anthem played, the crowd begins clearing as the tributes are led to the Justice Building. Most people are struggling to leave this place and celebrate, but I fight my way against the crowd. Only two small groups are left: Gale, Prim, and Katniss's mother, and a group of blond-haired people I'm guessing are Peeta's family.

Prim is still in Gale's arms, and she has stopped sobbing, but her eyes are red. Mrs. Everdeen looks like she's about to faint. I cross over to them and stand outside the Justice Building with them. I hardly know any of them, but our own misgivings about each other don't matter for the moment.

We're waiting, and then Father comes to me. "Madge? What are you doing here? Go home with your mother!"

"I need to say good-bye to Katniss!" I insist. "Please, Father, I have to!"

He sighs. "Go on then. But be quick. You didn't eat lunch either."

I don't respond as the Peacekeepers allow us into the building. They direct us outside the tributes' rooms, and I finger my pin impatiently as I wait. I'v e made up my mind about what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Everdeen and Prim go in first. I want to give Katniss my pin, but it seems right to let her see her family first. Gale and I are left outside, and we try not to look at each other. Then Mr. Mellark comes from Peeta's room and goes inside. After he leaves, I look at Gale, but he gestures to the door.

Katniss is sitting tensely in one of the red chairs and I cross straight over to her, already planned what I want to say. "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" I hold out the pin to her.

"Your pin?" she asks.

"Here, I'll put in on your dress, all right?" I lean over and clip it onto her dress. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Katniss? Promise?"

"Yes," she says, somewhat bewildered. I guess I've been a little too pushy, so I kiss her on the cheek. She nods, and then I go out of the room. I push right past Gale and the Peacekeepers. They recognize me as the mayor's daughter, so they don't question me.

That's the best thing about being the mayor's daughter. Most people leave you alone. And solitude is what I love. But not today.

Usually I spend my time at home alone. Period. I eat alone, put myself to bed alone. Our servants bring food up to Mother, and Father eats in his study. But I crave the company of my parents today. So I coax Mother out of bed and Father out of his study, downstairs where I set the table with place mats and our best silverware.

The strawberries lie fresh and washed in an old chipped bowl. I stare at the strawberries, remembering Katniss at my door this morning, defending me against Gale, handing me strawberries.

Mother sits hunched in her chair, her head bowed over her plate as though she's being read her death sentence. I eat a few forkfuls of my salad, then set down my fork and watch her.

Mother is only forty years old, yet she looks much older. Years of bed rest have hollowed her figure, and her hair has gray streaks already. I see her fragile arms trembling, her gaunt body shaking. I examine her face and try to see her twin sister in her, some flicker of my aunt in her lined face. Maysilee, who in her portrait at the young age of fifteen looks so determined, so forthright. I try to recognize a trace of this in my mother, yet I cannot. All I see is a frail old woman. Tragedy in her haunted eyes. Scarred for life. Wasted.

I focus my gaze on my father, who is eating his salad with constricted movements. As if he's really a statue and he's trying not to move at all, yet he has to. The way he eats the strawberries, though, speaks of one wisp of tenderness in this rock-solid man, forever defined by his mayorly duties.

I'm surprised to hear Mother speak. "Madge. Who were the tributes today?"

I look up. Mother does not seem to have moved at all in her chair. She's still staring at her plate, her head bowed down. "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

She nods, slowly. "Did you know them?"

"Yes. They're both in my year at school. Katniss was my friend… well, sort of. I didn't know Peeta so well, but he's the baker's son."

"Everdeen… Oh yes, I remember her mother. We used to be friends. When we were your age."

I nod. "Mother, Father, there's something I wanted to tell you. I gave Katniss the pin."

Father looks up. "What pin? Why?"

"They allow you to take one token into the arena. I asked Katniss to wear the Mockingjay pin."

Mother's head jerks up. "You mean the gold one?"

I nod. Suddenly, I feel worried. The pin is very special to my mother, the last piece of her twin. "Yes, I did Mother, and I'm sorry I gave it to her, but she deserved it. I mean… The thing is, her name wasn't actually called. Her sister was called."

Father says, "Her 12-year-old sister. Primrose Everdeen."

Mother looks stricken. "My God. How terrible for Maheona…" she says, referring to Mrs. Everdeen.

I continue. "And then Katniss volunteered for her. She ran up and before Prim could even set foot on the stage, she threw herself and screamed, 'I volunteer as tribute!' You could just hear the pain in her voice.

"So I thought about it, and I decided to give her the pin. I know what it means to you and all, but…"

I trail off. Mother and Father are both looking at me, their eyes trained on me. I expect them to thrash me for tossing away such an important family relic. So Mother surprises me when she sighs and begins clearing away the table. "I understand why you did it, Madge. Such a brave girl… Ulysses, have we ever had a volunteer for the Games?"

"In the richer districts, they have many volunteers," Father says.

"But that's where they're trained for it their entire lives, and it's an honor to be chosen. Here though…"

"In fact, I think she's Twelve's first ever volunteer," Father muses.

Mother nods. Suddenly, I realize that this is one of the rare times when she's out of bed and seems to be aware of the real world. Seems to really be herself. These are the times when she speaks her mind so freely, saying things like "the two-faced gift of tesserae." I imagine this is what she must have been like when she was my age. Young. Bold. Blunt. I want to keep her in this state. I don't want to lose her again, to the world of headaches and morphling that she spends her life in.

"Goodness knows she deserves that pin. There are only a few in this world worthy of that pin. She's Maysilee reincarnated in Seam form…"

Father and I meet each other's eyes. Since I heard my aunt's story when I was five, I have not heard her name spoke aloud by anyone in my family. The surprise of seeing Katniss become Twelve's girl tribute is nothing compared to the shock of hearing my mother say her twin sister's name after years.

Mother herself doesn't seem to realize what she's said—for a moment. Then, like a curtain slowly falling, ending a great show abruptly, her eyes cloud over. Not with tears, but with the pained bewilderment that plagues her day and night. For a moment she was standing upright, her back straight and proud. The next moment she is a feeble old little lady, clinging to the back of her chair.

My father puts an arm around her protectively and leads her out of the room. I'm left in the dining room, half-eaten plates of salad still out on the table.

I close my eyes, taking in the silence. Then, for the first time in many years, a little gasp escapes my throat and I sink into a chair and begin to cry. Tears burn my eyes and stroll down my face, as sobs wrack my body and I weep. It's too much. Katniss being gone. Mother forever grieving. Father forever distant. Aunt Maysilee dead.

My plan to cheer things up in the household seems so pathetic now, so stupid. What is the _point_ of all of this, I ask myself. Why do I bother? It's no use, trying to force smiles onto everybody's faces. It never works.

As I lie slumped in my chair, numb, I feel a sudden warm sensation, beginning at the tips of my toes and spreading itself through my being, like a healthy dollop of steaming soup swallowed. I wipe away my tears and breath tremulously.

I still don't see any change in my problems. Katniss is probably sliding between the sheets of her bed on the tribute train, awaiting her doom; Mother is again thrashing about in her own private hell of trauma; Father is again caged off, the solid, rock-hard mayor of District 12; Maysilee is still dead, dead as she's been for the twenty-five years she's been in her grave. But the sudden glow of radiance I feel, a shine of vivacity, leaves me with a strange comfort, a belief that this is not the end to my story.


	4. Chapter 4

But in the morning, I cannot make sense of the brief sensation of happiness I had last night. I try to hold onto the feeling, as particularly sweet as the freshest strawberries, but I cannot. It slips from my grasp, leaving me spiritless and barren. As if the sky has vowed to clothe itself in clouds forever more, and the sun is shining through the clouds one last time, displaying its rays a final time before the clouds engulf it and condemn the world to gray skies forevermore. I groan and swing my legs out of bed onto the scratchy wood panels, not bothering to lower my voice as a splinter stabs my big toe and I swear. This grim feeling overbears me as I shovel my breakfast into my dull, heavy mouth.

In short, life sucks.

I'm amazed at how the sun has risen, how the world has continued right on. I eat at the same huge table, by myself as usual. I pull on the same gray skirt and blouse for school, trek down the same path to school. The same worn school building, with DISTRICT 12 EDUCATIONAL FACILITY along with the seal of Panem and the District 12 emblem. The same bustle of kids between classrooms.

I can't stand worrying about the future anymore. So I close myself to the outside world, to the present, and slip into the past. I don't walk around like a robot all day, but I'm not really in the present. I'm in my past life. Recollecting my life, recirculating it through my head…

_Thirteen years ago_

When I was three, I didn't understand why my mother wasn't like other mothers. She didn't comb my hair each morning or bustle in the kitchen, making my favorite desserts. She didn't hug and smile me. All day long my mother lay in bed asleep, with the curtains drawn shut and the door closed, moaning with a terrible pain I could not understand at the time. My father reprimanded me one morning when I opened her bedroom door and flew in, wanting her to wake up for once. The pain was still fresh in my mind at how she had not bothered to get out of bed for my third birthday, two months ago.

"I want Mama to wake up!" I whined, as he whisked me out of the room and set me outside, shutting the door quietly.

"Mama can't wake up today," he said firmly.

"Then when will she?" I cried. My father averted his eyes and didn't answer as he strode back to his study and closed the door.

I was so young—only two months after my third birthday—but something clicked in my mind as I stared after him, the apparent answer manifesting itself in the silence. An unpleasant sensation crept upon me, one no three-year-old should have. I didn't mention Mother's not waking up again, but I felt like I knew something. Something I didn't want to know.

Mother didn't always stay cooped up in her room. Sometimes she came out, but that was hardly better. She was constantly stooped over, her arms clasped around herself as though shivering, her eyes somewhere else. She said little, ate little, moved little. Seeing her so inert scared me so much I refused to be in her presence when she was like this. It was callous of me to fear my mother like this, when she lived in so much constant pain, but I was not strong enough. I couldn't face my mother like that.

Then several months later, I brought up the subject again. I slipped my feet out of my small bed and pattered out of my room, down the stairs, and into my father's study. He turned and smiled as I walked up beside him, my nightgown fluttering.

It was the evening after my fourth birthday. Again, my mother hadn't gotten out of bed for my party. Although I was still small, I'd acquired a sense of maturity now, and it enabled me to ask him the question again more calmly. "Daddy? Will Mother ever wake up?"

He sighed and set down his pen. A crease formed between his eyes as he seemed to make up his mind about something. "Okay, darling. I'm going to tell you something, and I'm going to try to explain it as best as I can. You see, I don't know how to explain this very well."

"But you're the mayor, Daddy," I said. "You can do anything." He smiled and gathered me onto his lap. "just because I'm the mayor doesn't mean I can do everything. Okay. So, you see. Mother doesn't always sleep the whole day. You see, she stays in bed because she… she has ghosts."

"Ghosts?" I asked, bewildered.

"Yes. That doesn't mean that she has dead people haunting her. It means… she has _memories_ haunting her."

"Memories? Haunting her?" My eyes widened, as apprehension slid over me. I thought memories were something happy, something you cherished and wrote down in diaries and looked back on again, many years later. My father explained, "You have lots of good memories, and you're a very lucky girl. But Mother has lots of bad memories. And those bad memories… well, they haunt her so much they take away all her strength. She has to stay in bed all day. And when she's in bed… she isn't sleeping, but she's… in her own world."

I sat on his lap, wide-eyed, as I tried to understand this new information. "What bad memories does Mother have?"

"Of the Hunger Games," Father whispered softly.

I had heard the name tossed around before. I didn't give much thought to it; all I knew was that it happened every year and that it became important when you turned twelve. Father carried me back to bed, but my young mind churned with the revelations of the night. What did it mean that Mother was in "her own world"? What bad memories did she have of the Hunger Games? How could memories take away her strength?

I could no better understand why Mother stayed in bed, but when I thought it, I didn't think of it with the same childish resentment and bitterness, but with wonder and questions.

I also wondered: What were the Hunger Games?

I soon found out that they were something you watched on television. Something you _had_ to watch. The Hunger Games that happened that year is the first one I remember. I vaguely remember going to the reaping, seeing the huge bowls, seeing the great crowds, and hearing two names called.

Our servants—Hestia and Lyre— whisked me out of the room when I begged to watch the Games on TV. "Absolutely _not_, oh no, you will not!" Hestia scolded me. "Not for another five years, at least."

Sometimes I crept into Mother's room, while she was in bed. I scooted up in the big rocking chair and stroked her hair. In those years, it was never really Mother who took care of me. It was rather I who took care of her.

She would moan with a terrible pain and I spent many afternoons doing nothing but sitting at her bedside and holding her hand. Sometimes I sat right through dinnertime and into the night. I insisted to my father and our servants that I had to stay with Mother.

During those long hours, I would watch her moan and shift in bed, wondering more than ever what bad memories haunted her. I tried to wrap my young mind around the fact that memories could not only be bad but also haunt you. I learnt that the memories were so bad that Mother injected a clear liquid from tubes into herself often. I learnt how to inject a dose of morphling quickly, if she cried out in pain. In retrospect, this was perhaps the most horrifying part: a four-year-old being forced to drug her mother. But I had to know how to save my mother.

Months of sitting at my mother's bedside took all the childish edge off my young self. Hestia and Lyre often told me I acted like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. They joked I'd be getting gray hairs before I was five. I acted with a dignity that many people attributed to my being the mayor's daughter, but really came from the maturity I'd developed from watching my mother suffer.

I realized this the day I met Delly Cartwright, on my fifth birthday. The memory is blurry, but I recall Mrs. Cartwright gushing, "Well, what a lovely little girl you are!"

But I wasn't a little girl, I realized as Mrs. Cartwright ruffled my hair. The little girl I once was, was now gone. That day I blew out five candles on my birthday cake, but I remember thinking that there ought to have been about fifty more.


	5. Chapter 5

_Eleven years ago_

I was now five years old. With another year under my belt, I could view my life with an even clearer eye. I would be beginning school in a few months' time. On the first day of school, Father walked me to my classroom. Many of my fellow kindergarteners were crying or begging their parents to stay with them. But not me. As always I sailed through the crowd with a maturity uncharacteristic of a little girl on her first day of school. The time I had spent cooped up in my mother's room, watching her writhe and wail in bed, left me feeling alienated from many fellow kids my age.

Father held me by the hand as we lined up. Over ahead in the line a young Seam girl was standing with her parents. Her hair was in two braids and she had on a red plaid dress. One small hand held her mother's hand and the other clutched her father's. What confused me about the girl was that her mother seemed to be a townie, while her father was a coal miner.

Father saw me staring at her. "You see that little girl? Her mother used to be friends with your mother."

I looked up. He was staring at the little family with a strange look on his face, almost like envy. I asked him, "Why is her mother a townie and her father a coal miner? I thought townies and coal miners hated each other."

He looked at me somberly. "You think that matters? That family may seem strange, but let me tell you this, Madge. They are a lot happier than we are."

I thought about how happy we were. My mother in bed 24/7, my father always locked away in his study, the long hours at my mother's bedside, the great somber house. We definitely weren't very happy. But less happier than this Seam girl?

The bell rang and Father awkwardly pecked a kiss on my forehead. "Enjoy your first day of school. I'll walk you home in front of the school."

I watched him walk off as I was swept with the crowd of students. What did he mean, that they were a lot happier than I was? The question was wiped from my mind as a collection of Seam boys found me. They regarded me in a way that made me squirm with their hard gray eyes. I tried not to stare at their ragged clothes, the dirt smeared over them. "Mayor's daughter, eh?" one of them whispered.

I felt conspicuous in my fluffy pink dress and my long hair done up in a ponytail with a flower in it. I sidestepped them and found my class.

At lunch, I found the girl sitting by herself. I began talking with her, and I found out her name was Katniss Everdeen. She lived in a little house in the Seam, with her parents and her baby sister Primrose. Her mother used to work at the town apothecary, and her father met her there while bringing herbs from the forest. I was shocked to find out her father hunted illegally. "Sometimes, he even brings me with him and teaches me how to shoot," she whispered, her eyes alight. "But don't tell anyone he hunts. Then they'll arrest him and we'll have nothing to eat at home."

I swore I wouldn't tell anyone her secret. In music class, after she sang the Valley Song, she whispered to me, "My father taught me how to sing that song. He sings so well, the birds want to join in with him too."

The bell rang at the end of the day. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Everdeen pick up Katniss at the front of the school and walk down the dirt path to the Seam. In Mrs. Everdeen's arms was Baby Prim, her blond curls flying and her hands waving. I looked down the path, to the little family walking home after the first day of school… and then entered my three-story home, where all was silent to alleviate my mother's pain, and my father hurried back upstairs to his study. I looked around my house and then sighed.

As mind-blowing as the idea of hunting illegally was to me at the time, what shocked me even more was the fact that what my father had said was right: they were a lot happier than we were. So what if her father had to hunt illegally for food, while as the mayor's family we had enough to eat? She had two parents who loved her and a sweet little sister. I had a mother who lay in bed all day, a father who buried himself in his mayoral duties, and a huge silent house.

I remembered the gang of Seam boys who had stared at me today. I realized that they thought simply because I was the mayor's daughter, I had an easy life. _But I didn't_…

_Present Day_

"Madge—_Madge_—MADGE!"

I jump in my seat. The bell has rung, and students are streaming out around me. I've been daydreaming clear through the last few minutes. I swing my book bag onto my shoulder and hurry out the door with Delly Cartwright.

I'm not going home. I won't walk into that goddamn silent house, I won't walk into the _tomb_ that it is. That's what I call my home. The Tomb. Walking into it I always feel like I'm walking into a house where someone has died— and maybe someone really has. So I don't walk on the pristine sidewalk that leads to town. Instead, I follow the crowd of dark-haired coal-miner kids walking on the run-down path that eventually gives way to dirt.

People turn and stare at me as I maneuver my way through the crowd. Over the years I've grown accustomed to the looks that come from every direction. The dark stares and brooding whispers from the Seam kids, laced with accusation for being the mayor's daughter, having enough to eat while they don't know if they'll eat supper. The pointed snickering and averted eyes of merchant kids, thinking I'm a snob for being from the most affluent household in the district. The glare the Tomb seems to give me as I march up the steps after school and creak open the door, for intruding on the haunting of bad memories.

I used to squirm under all this staring, but I learnt to brush it off and to sail through a crowd like I'm nobody special. Still, I feel awkward as I walk to the Seam. With my golden hair, my blue eyes, and my starched school outfit, I stand out like black against white in the crowd of black-haired, gray-eyed people stained in coal dust. Looking around, I see dilapidated shacks, coal miners hunched over, faces thinned and emaciated.

This is where Katniss lives. Where she has grown up. This is the harsh reality that slaps her in the face each morning, as she climbs out of bed and begins another day. I've never had more respect for her than now, for how she continues to survive in the hope that she and her family can push on.

I try to look through the houses, see which one's is Katniss's. But I can't tell the difference between any of them. I ask someone, "Excuse me? Do you know where the Everdeens live?"

The coal miner and his friends stare at me wordlessly. I feel the iciness of their unspoken accusations, but I refuse to cower, and I look them squarely in the eye, expectant. Waiting for an answer.

The last trickles of schoolchildren coming home pass by us, and a spate of younger faces surrounds us. I recognize two of them. Gale and Prim.

The coal miner suddenly shouts, "Hey, Hawthorne! Check this out. Mayor's girl here."

Gale turns and sees me. Shock fills his face, and he's about to say something when Prim shouts, "Madge!"

She breaks free from Gale's hold around her and runs to me, wrapping her skinny arms around me. I return the embrace and smile. Gale follows after Prim and stands in front of me, crossing his arms. "You're in the Seam," he notes.

"Well, yes, what's to stop me if I want to take a stroll through the district?" I say.

"So you came here," he says. "To the Seam. To the poorest part of the district."

"I wanted to see Katniss's family," I say shortly. "So if you'll please tell me where their house is?"

Prim tugs on my hand. "Come on, let's go to my house!"

I follow the little girl as she flies through the Seam, with me jogging behind her and Gale striding alongside. Eventually we come to a small house with a goat pen in the front. Prim leads us into the front doorway and into her house. I've never been to Katniss's house, and I look around. They don't even have a separate room for their beds. The two mattresses sit on the floor, with moth-eaten sheets covering them. I skirt around them as Prim leaps over them in a single bound. "Wow," I say, impressed.

"Katniss and I used to have jumping competitions when we were little," Prim reminisces. "When she got older she didn't do it anymore because it was childish, but I kept doing it. And now I can jump over them in one go."

Her face falls, and I realize just how heavy the burden she's been carrying is. It's bad enough that her sister is in the Hunger Games. But this little girl has to watch her sister on that television screen, knowing that everything Katniss suffers, she's suffering it for her. And knowing that someone is hurting out there, specifically for you, is its own form of torture I cannot even fathom. I feel selfish for sniveling last night like I did after dinner. I extend an arm and wrap it around her shoulders. Together we enter into the kitchen, where Mrs. Everdeen stands washing the dishes. She turns around and smiles at her youngest daughter, then sees me. "Who's this?"

"Madge Undersee. Katniss's friend," Prim explains, as Gale enters behind us.

Comprehension dawns on Mrs. Everdeen's face, and she says, "Oh! The mayor's daughter, I assume?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see Gale tense. I nod to Mrs. Everdeen and she says, "I knew your mother when we were younger. How… how is she?"

I know by the way her voice falters slightly that she's not just making small talk. She's referring to my mother's headaches, the bad memories that haunt her day and night. I meet her eyes, to let her know I understand what she means, and I say, "Sometimes she seems to be making progress, but other times she's worse. But I'm sure she'll be fine."

She nods. "Would you like some cheese? We got it from our goat, Lady."

"Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Everdeen. I had lunch." I say.

"Call me Maheona," she says, unperturbed. "And no need to be polite. Sit down, have some."

I sit down at the table, as Prim lays out the cheese and heaps it onto my plate. Gale remains leaning against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes trained on me. I avoid his stare and eat the cheese with the cracked fork Prim hands me. The awkward silence is broken only by the clinks of the dishes in the kitchen and the noises of me eating the cheese. Prim, sensing the awkwardness, pipes up, "Would you like to see our goat?"

I nod, and Prim leads us outside. She skips into the pen and pets the goat. Proudly she announces, "This is Lady, our goat. She's given us milk and cheese for the last two years. Katniss and Gale bought her for me for my tenth birthday."

Gale shoots her a warning look, but she doesn't notice as she rambles on, "Katniss and Gale shot a deer—it was one of the only deer they ever shot—"

"_Prim!_" Gale shouts, shock entering his face. I think this is the only time I've ever seen him angry. He glares at the little girl, and I'm struck by how his gray eyes glitter, even if they show anger.

"You _don't_ tell anyone about what we do behind the fence!" He shouts at her, bearing down on her. Prim looks aghast at her mistake. Lady bleats at the noise and canters forward to shield Prim from the tall man yelling at her.

He gestures at me, still yelling at Prim. "You think we don't risk our necks enough for you? To make sure you have food in your belly? We run from wild dogs and bears trying to get your dinner on the table and you go about trumpeting the fact that we hunt to the mayor's daughter—"

"Excuse me?"

I march to the three of them, Gale frowning, Prim trembling, and Lady bleating. Now I've entered this fight too. "What did you just say?"

Gale ignores me and continues castigating Prim. "Listen to me. _I _am all that's keeping you alive, now that your sister's at the Capitol. _I_ am the difference between your life and your death. I now have two more mouths to feed, and _no_ hunting partner. I am your only lifeline. And if you blab about it, to people in power, then I'll be taken away and God help you then!"

"Hold it," I say.

I step between the two of them. Lady has now fled back into the pen, as far away from Gale as possible, and Prim's face is wet with tears. I brush a hand against her cheek, wiping away her tears. "Prim, thank you for the cheese. I'll take home the rest for dinner tonight. Did you make it yourself from Lady's milk?"

Prim nods, a small smile tremulously forming through her tears. I smile back. "It tasted very good. I need to be getting home now. I hope Katniss does well in the Games."

I hurry inside and wrap the cheese up in a napkin, tucking it into my skirt pocket. I stride back outside, to where Prim and Gale are still standing inside the pen. I wait as Prim strokes Lady and corrals her. She heads to her doorstep and waves to me. I wave back, smiling.

"Good-bye, Prim. Have a good afternoon," I call to her cordially.

I wait until she's shut the door and is out of earshot. I turn to Gale. "And now for you," I say, fury bubbling inside of me and steeling me, preparing me for what I'm about to do. "_You and I have issues to settle._"


	6. Chapter 6

I've never had experience in arguing with people that much. I simply prefer solitude and peace, rather than a battle of words, so I keep my mouth shut and walk away usually.

But today is different. What Gale has said today is an affront on my moral character, is a false accusation on my identity, is an unfounded charge against an innocent little girl. I remember I promised Hestia yesterday afternoon I'd come early after school today to prepare the house for the Capitol media coming this evening. That will have to wait.

Gale snaps at me, "What issues, Undersee? What? What issues could you possibly have? You're going home to a three-story house and food on the table? No need to dirty your dainty little shoes in Seam dirt. What's wrong? Go on home."

"Not right away. Let's start at the beginning. What's this about me being the mayor's daughter? Being one of the 'people in power'? I already knew you and Katniss hunted, where else could you get strawberries?"

"When you get home you'll probably tell your daddy that Gale Hawthorne poaches behind the fence. Oh, you townies are all the same. Don't think I don't know."

"Watch yourself, Hawthorne," I say dangerously. "You think I have it easy being the mayor's daughter? You think we're happier than you are? Don't make assumptions. They'll bite you in the butt."

"_Really?_" Gale steps closer to me, closing the distance between us. "What were you doing on reaping day? Worrying about your friends being chosen? Worrying about yourself being chosen? Worrying about your family, your future? No, you were thinking about looking nice if you go to the Capitol. That's all you are. The mayor's daughter, with five slips and a gold pin."

"And your first priority was that I was wearing a pretty dress. As for the five slips, Peeta Mellark had five slips as well and _he_ was chosen. So the odds aren't in your favor, even if you've got five in there. And as for that gold pin, you think it's just a gold pin?"

"It could give a family food for a year. It's real gold. It could go for several hundred dollars." Gale says.

I stare at him, appalled. The pin is the one reminder my mother has of her dear twin sister. No way I would part with it so easily. A few hundred dollars is not a sufficient price. The price that got me to give it away was the ultimate sacrifice Katniss made to save her sister's life. "Don't make assumptions."

"Assumptions? What assumptions?" Gale burst out. "You—standing there—mayor's daughter— you've never even had to take out any tesserae!"

"So instead of being glad that at least some people can count on dinner, you're mad for what the Capitol has done, not what I've done?" My voice rises in fury. I've managed to keep from shouting, but now I cannot. "You think I _like_ the fact that half my classmates risk their neck to get food for their family? You think I _like_ the two-faced gift of tesserae?"

Gale stares at me. "What?"

"Never mind that. And besides, if you've got a problem, take it up with me. For God's sake, don't take it out on a little girl who'll be watching her sister fight to the death in a few days. I didn't think you'd sink that low—threatening starvation."

"That's none of your business," Gale snaps shortly. "You go home, to your Capitol-cooked meals, and I'll go into the woods to find my traps empty for the fifth day in a row—"

"I don't care," I snap back. I'm finished with this idiot. "You think Prim isn't suffering enough? You think she doesn't have enough on her plate, watching her sister die on national television for her? Go, Hawthorne."

"I—"

"Go. Get away from me. I never liked you much, but I didn't think you could sink as low as you did today. Go. And may the odds be ever in your _disfavor."_

I hate myself for sinking that low, but I can't help it today. What Gale Hawthorne has done to me is unforgivable. And as much as I hate being a bully, I hate people who lambaste me based on assumptions. I storm away from him, but before I turn I catch another glimpse of those gray eyes. They still show anger, but there's something about them that makes me recoil. I can't name it. I think it's guilt, perhaps. For a fleeting instant I want to apologize, but before I can he's turned away and is heading back to the Seam.

I head in the opposite direction, back toward town. I can't help but think that I'm returning to the mayor's house, while he's returning to the Seam to provide for seven people by himself. His family, Katniss's family, and himself. With no help. I might have had some sympathy for him, but what he's done today has obliterated any trace of it in my heart.

It isn't just that Gale Hawthorne hates me. I've seen all the girls swoon as he passes by them in the hallway at school. I know how they'd all love to have him notice them. But it isn't that. It's that his cruel words have reached down into me and attacked the things I hold closest to my heart. Once you've crossed that line, you can't uncross it. Not in my eyes.

I open the door to the Tomb and Hestia greets me reproachfully. "You said you'd come early and help."

"I'm sorry," I say helplessly. Hestia looks at me and says, "Okay, who pulled your heartstrings today?"

"How do you know?"

"You're crying," she says, brushing my cheek.

I wipe them away, snapping at her, "Nobody! Nothing!"

Hestia doesn't say anything, watching me carefully. I sigh. "I went to the Seam to try to offer some moral support to Katniss Everdeen's family and I ended up fighting with her best friend Gale Hawthorne."

"Ah, I see. Boy trouble."

In a flash I'm glaring at her. "It's _not_ just boy trouble! I'm not that shallow! He got mad at me for being the mayor's daughter and always being well-off while he hunts behind the fence, trying to feed seven mouths and putting his name in the bowl forty-two times."

My voice lowers, as I say, "He thinks my life is perfect. He thinks I have it easy. He doesn't have a clue. Nobody in District 12 does."

Hestia knows me well enough to leave me alone to stew. I sit on the couch, trying to marshal my thoughts. I still can't shake the look in Gale's eyes I glimpsed. Now that I've calmed down, I've been able to take a step away from the situation and view things with clearer eyes. It isn't easy, providing for two families singlehandedly. And Gale needs someone to focus his anger on. I've always admired the way he takes everything so stoically, but maybe he doesn't. No person is made of rock, I know. And maybe he just needed, for one minute, to let go of the stress he has, losing his best friend to the Games, the extra people to feed, the harsh reality he faces.

Then I remember what I come home to every day: my silent tomb, my defeated mother, my distant father. And he has the gall to get mad at me for wearing a pin. Anger rushes through me, tightening my muscles and tensing my fists.

But the look I saw in Gale's gray eyes flashes in front of me and all the anger floods out of me, leaving me as cold and empty as I woke up this morning. Always life in Panem is like this. A vicious cycle of hatred and death and regret, that leaves no hapless victim unscathed.

Abruptly I get up, upsetting two of the velvety cushions. I'm so sick of doubts and misery. I'm done whimpering. I want to get away from all of this, even if only for a few minutes. I stride purposefully to where my closest friend is. The one friend who knows everything in my heart and guards all my secrets. The one friend who expects nothing of me yet gives anything, everything, in return. The one friend who has stuck with me through my turbulent life, who knows every struggle, every battle, every misery I have ever faced, and has been there for me every step of the way.


	7. Chapter 7

The piano gives a musical sigh as I open the cover and sit down on the piano bench that has

molded itself to the shape of my bottom over the years. Throughout the years of my lonely

childhood, when the silence and the oppression of bad memories' hauntings had threatened to

smother me, I have climbed onto the piano bench and buried myself in my music.

I put myself through a series of drills. First finger warm-ups, then etudes, then my scales. It's

tedious, dragging these all out drills when I could play them in my sleep, but I want to disappear

into the notes, the way I can if I sit long enough at the piano and concentrate on the music.

My fingers traverse across the beams of black and white, hitting the four sharps of E Major

flawlessly across six octaves. I imagine with each rendition of the Major scale, my life, my

troubles and worries, are all being lifted and carried away on the wind, until there's nothing left

but the music. I admire how the piano can sound so many different levels of volumes—from

pianississimo to fortississimo. And that's before I've added in the dimension of the damper

pedal, blurring notes together and letting them hang in the air like soft sighs on a summer

evening.

The pieces I've memorized until they are a part of my soul sound out under my fingers. My right

hand flies over and back over my left hand, plinking out notes before a heavy sforzando on the

left side of the piano, then a swirl of an appoggiatura, all the while the left hand playing out a

steady bass. The piece progresses from Major to minor, before a series of chords swirled by

the damper pedal indicates the left hand bass changing to a bouncy staccato of chords. Then

for the finish. I pound my fingers into the keyboard, mixing my chords and damper pedal until

the final three chords in fortississimo. Each one pounds in my blood, as I finish the finale with a

flourish.

I sit back, my heart pounding. I stare at the piano, remembering the afternoon following my first

day of school…

_Eleven years ago_

I sighed. I was through with this. Living my life in a silent home, with caged-away parents and no

answers. I wanted to know what bad memories haunted my mother. I marched into my father's

study and asked him, "Father, will you please tell me what bad memories haunt Mother?"

I wasn't going to settle for evasion or ambiguity this time. I stood with my arms crossed, waiting

for a proper answer. Father sighed, and then sighed again. "Okay. Get a chair, because it's a

long story."

I sat down, and Father began. "You see, when your mother was a young girl, she had a twin

sister. Her twin sister was named Maysilee. Your mother, her sister, and Mrs. Everdeen were

the best of friends. Then one day, Maysilee went to the Hunger Games."

"What are the Hunger Games?"

"That's another long story entirely."

"I want to hear it."

"Okay. Over sixty years ago, there was a Capitol and thirteen districts. The districts rebelled

in what was known as the Dark Days. The Capitol defeated twelve of them and destroyed the

thirteenth. In punishment for the rebellion, every year an event known as the Hunger Games

would be held. Each district would send one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and

eighteen as tributes. The twenty-four tributes would participate in a fight to the death. The last

one standing was the winner. The winning tribute's district received food and money for life."

I sat in my chair, horrified by this. "Your aunt Maysilee was chosen as a tribute for the Fiftieth…

She went there and… well, you know that the Hunger Games are on TV each year, right? Your

mother saw her twin sister there… and the memories she has of that are so horrible that your

mother is still in bed, fifteen years later."

"Did Aunt Maysilee win?"

Father sighed. "It was a District Twelve victory… but not by your aunt."

"The boy tribute won?"

"Yes."

A long silence passed. I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, "Father… what happened to

her in the Hunger Games? Did she—"

I faltered at the look on my father's face, a twisting of his features into a grim mask of pain,

showing scars many years deep. I backed away, and fled the study without another word.

The rest of the story filled itself in for me over the next few years. Our educational curriculum

being saturated with the Hunger Games, of course, I learnt that the victor of the Fiftieth Games

was the local drunk Haymitch Abernathy. Did he kill my aunt? I wondered, fear bubbling in the

pit of my stomach. I also found out that the year Maysilee went, twice as many tributes went in.

Which meant she faced 47 competitors, not 23. No wonder she died in there.

And I watched the next Hunger Games in secret, despite Hestia and Lyre's best efforts to keep

me out. That was the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, the year Finnick Odair of District 4 won. I saw

the extraordinarily handsome boy rained down in sponsor gifts, saw him mangle his victims with

his trident, saw the Capitol slobber over him in the weeks afterwards. I wondered if my aunt had

been killed that way, with a trident.

And finally I understood why my mother was in bed. Watching the Hunger Games was enough

to make me want to hide in bed all day. But I had to be strong for my mother. And so I was.

Since then, the question has haunted me. How did Maysilee die? Every Hunger Games, I watch

and add more gory images to my mental catalogue of the possible ways she suffered and died

in the arena. Strangely enough, there are never any replays of the Fiftieth Games, despite the

fact it's the year our own victor won. I'm glad for this, since Mother doesn't have to relive seeing

her sister die, but at the same time I want to know how she died.

I can't explain why I want to know this. To bring an end to the constant worries that plague me?

I don't know. It wouldn't make me happy, knowing the answer. But it would end my gruesome

imaginings… bring a sense of closure.

But I've never had the courage to ask anyone. I stare at her portrait on the mantle, wondering

how this girl who looks so much like me died. I sit by my mother's bedside, injecting a dose

of morphling into her bloodstream. I watch Haymitch Abernathy dragging himself drunkenly

through the streets. And the question torments me, like a fly attacking the strawberries, how did

Maysilee die?

_Present Day_

Looking back on my childhood, I don't think I ever really had one. I practically raised myself, in

my silent somber home with ghosts of past memories, watching my mother suffer and seeing

my father so distant. I didn't laugh or run with joy. I may be the mayor's daughter, but my life has

been just as hard as the lives of those who live in the Seam.

In this way, we're all equal, I suppose. None of us have escaped the oppression of the Capitol.

Katniss and Gale lost their fathers in the mine explosion five years ago and were forced to begin

feeding their families. I never knew my mother, lost in trauma from the Hunger Games. Even

other townies, like Peeta, Delly and others, who always have enough to eat, grow up in the

reality of starvation and watching the annual Hunger Games.

What I think is that the Capitol has arranged it so carefully, with tools like the two-faced gift of

tesserae, so that we only see our own differences. Differences between those who manage

to get dinner on the table on a regular basis and those who go to bed many a night with their

stomachs rumbling. Differences that divide us, make us weak within. Differences that if we set

aside, who knows what we could accomplish?

I never understood what good comes of the merchant and coal miner division. All it does is

infuse hatred into people's everyday lives, into their deepest thoughts and feelings. Hatred

that simmers in the gray eyes of Seam people and in the blue eyes of townies. I hate that the

Capitol influences every bit of our lives. It's bad enough that they kill our children and starve us.

But what I always thought is that despite oppression and cruelty, people's hearts remain pure

even in the darkest of times. Apparently not, though. As seen in the fight I had with Gale this

afternoon.

All of it does nothing, however, but ensure that the odds of establishing a unified rebellion

against the Capitol will never be in the districts' favor. In the end, the class differences and

internal hatred that contaminate our lives only benefit the Capitol even more. No matter which

way you look at it, the Capitol always triumphs.

It doesn't have to be that way, though. I stand before Maysilee's portrait and whisper, "Things

could be different. The Capitol doesn't always have to win. Could it all be different?"

There's no answer, but I desperately need one. The ridiculous question flaps against my soul,

the fleeting thought I've buried deep within myself, the naïve fantasy I tried to quash long ago

but has persisted on. The hope has burned in me as long as I've known that the Capitol is evil.

It's a foolish wish, an idealistic wish, a quixotic wish, but it continues to burn with a passion

unrivaled by any other: Could things be different?


End file.
